


Pretty Darling

by Darke_Eco_Freak



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: After-care, Body Worship, Dacryphilia, Don’t copy to another site, Face-Fucking, Gender-neutral Reader, Light Dom/sub, Other, Pet Names, Praise Kink, Teasing, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 21:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20460092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darke_Eco_Freak/pseuds/Darke_Eco_Freak
Summary: Sometimes working with the man he used to be and the son that's his by proxy gets to be...overbearing. The world closes in, tight and constricting, until there's barely enough space of him to breathe. He considers it a godsend, then, that he has you to help him through the tighteness in his throat.





	Pretty Darling

V’s gorgeous, so fucking gorgeous, and sometimes all you wanna do is look at him for hours and hours. Sometimes you want to sit him down and run your fingers ever so careful over his pretty features. Trace the line of his nose and the jut of his cheekbones, smooth a careful thumb over his closed eyes, then swipe across his full lips.

You want to feel his smirk tugging against your finger and see the fragile emotion in his soft green eyes. You want those eyes on you, and only you.

And sometimes you do. When he’s wound up tight, teeth clenched hard and eyes narrowed in pain or frustration or plain exhaustion. When pretty darling V needs a break, from the world and his place in it.

That’s when you’ll suggest a movie, or a bookshop date, or any little thing to get him away from Devil May Cry and Nero and Vergil. Because it’s always them, always that place. V shouldn’t exist anymore, not when Vergil does, but _shouldn’t_ doesn’t make V disappear into dust and darkness. Shouldn’t doesn’t help him settle into his bones and fit in his skin, so you do it instead.

Tonight, tonight you pulled him away with dinner. Offered to make him a homecooked meal, something healthy to lure him in, as if he’d say no. He never says no, not to you, because he loves you.

He loves you for all the ways you aren’t involved in his crazy world of demons; know of it, sure, but aren’t part of it. You aren’t a hunter, or a half-devil. You know both of your parents and they are unrepentantly human, just like you, and V loves that. The…_normalcy_ of it.

He loves you for all the ways you see _him_, and not a poor amalgamation of another man’s heart and humanity. You never knew Vergil, and still don’t because he’s an asshole you can barely be civil with. You don’t look at V reading quietly and mention that Vergil crosses his legs just like that. You don’t laugh when he pushes his hair back out of his eyes, or when he holds his cane like it could cut.

He loves you because you will read to him, if he asks. And you’ll drag him out of his head when he needs it. And when the world is simply too much, you make him dinner and talk about poetry the whole time.

Pretty words that dance in the air between the both of you. You talk about your favourites, the Seniors and the Hardys, and why pathetic fallacy is every depressed poet’s best friend. While he smiles, lopsided and real, and you reach for his hand across the table, stroking the jut of his knuckles.

He talks about Burke and Wordsworth, and the beauty of the Romantics. Tension bleeding away as he eats, waxing poetic about his poetry, and you listen with rapt attention. The hunch of his shoulders softens, the clench of his jaw loosens, and he lets himself settle into this quiet little space you’ve carved out for him.

Your kitchen, only two feet shy of tiny, and his place at your table, it came with the apartment. There’s nothing particularly special about the powder blue walls or mis-matched appliances, but that’s not entirely the point. This is just a space for the two of you, with the dim lights and food you made for him. This is a space for **_him_**.

“Desert?” you offer, though you already know the answer. V’s eyes light up and his lips curl into a delighted grin.

He has a sweet tooth, your pretty darling, and you love to spoil him when he’ll allow it. Cakes and pastries and sweets and chocolate, oh so much chocolate. He loves dark chocolate, adores white, and will savour every bite of milk. Once he ate himself sick, and now he knows better, but he can still eat too much of it.

For now though, a chocolate cake drizzled in chocolate sauce should be fine. Not something you made but the bakery down the street is good and V likes their food. Though he’d deny it, because he doesn’t always think he deserves nice things.

You’d give him the world if you could, because he deserves nothing less, but a generous slice of chocolate cake is an easy place to start. At least, if the breathy little noise he makes is any indication.

There’s less talking through desert because you’d much rather watch V savour his treat. There’s something almost innocent about the way he cuts the cake into careful pieces, like a child who never thought something so wonderful could exist. He never had a chance to be a child, not his own child at least, so maybe that’s why.

Everything’s new and everything’s familiar, and you laugh as he smears chocolate on his cheek. He grins, shy and sweet, your pretty darling, but his eyes are bright with expectation. He knows how this goes, and enough of that high-strung tension’s ebbed away for him to appreciate the foreplay. For him to wipe the chocolate away with a finger then lick it off again with a moan that’s utterly obscene.

And his eyes never leave yours, though they flutter shut for a second, they slip open again for you. You could almost think he’s teasing you, but you know so much better. He’s playing along, letting himself have this instead of thinking he doesn’t deserve it.

“Need some help, V?” you ask so innocently, because this is _your_ game. He can play so well, knows all of the rules and the loopholes through them, but he’s just a player. A pretty player with chocolate smeared on his lips now and half-lidded eyes.

“If you would be so kind,” he murmurs, leaning across the tiny table and into your waiting hand.

His cheek is warm against your palm, soft when he nuzzles into your touch. Sweet V, he’s always so desperate for any kind of affection, half touch starved, and you love indulging him. You tip his face to the side, tilt it til his hair falls away from his face and you can see the bob of his throat as he swallows thickly.

“What do you want tonight darling?” you ask gently, watching him understand what you're really asking. It's subtle, the games you two play. Subtle like the shift in your voice, from playful to controlling. Subtle like the way he dips his head and parts his lips, peering through his thick lashes. 

Your thumb was already resting on his bottom lip but now you can feel his warm breath, the slightest tremble as he considers his answer. And you could be nice, oh so very nice; you could let him think things through all the way to the end like he enjoys, but you're just a bit impatient. You want to play, to work the every last drop of tension out of him, fuck it out of him if he wants, so you don't play nice. 

You press your thumb harder, gently still, careful with your pretty darling, but the pressure is insistent. Never painful but there's no ignoring you, so he doesn't even try. V opens his mouth obediently, plush lips tugging up in a hesitant smile. And you could take your time here just to appreciate the fine picture he paints but you don’t becuase you'd rather have your hands smeared in colour. You slip your finger past his pretty lips and he laps it, sucks on the tip with bleary eyes locked on your face. He moans silently when you press down again, rubbing your thumb along his tongue, holding it in place while he stares; caught in the headlights.

He doesn't even twitch when you slip your free hand around his neck and settle your fingers against his pulse. Doesn't try to stop you squeezing just tight enough to feel the rush of his pulse under your fingers. It’s almost as heady as his tongue on your thumb, moving lazy but so content, so familiar and welcome. 

“You need to speak up, darling,” you remind him, and he nods, but neither of you pull away. His heart keeps racing and you keep drinking in the sight of him. His slowly flushing cheeks, such a lovely pink, and red of his lips around your finger.

You wonder if he’s doing the same, taking you in through the daze, or maybe he’s just enjoying the feeling of all this. The firm hand around his throat, inexplicably there, the one cupping his face. It’s nothing much, nothing compared to what the two of you have gotten up to before, but it’s still so much.

“I…could you…” he starts and stops, words mumbled around your finger, and eyes falling away from your face so demure.

He always has such pretty words, rhyming couplets to describe the curve of your cheek or the fall of your hair, but sometimes his words fail him. When he has to ask for something he wants, desperately or not, his words fail him. And it’s a little sad to watch, the way he stumbles over his own wants and needs.

But, this is still your game, and you make the rules as you go. He’s a wonderful player but he’s not the Games Master, and that’s fine. He could be the Master if wanted, if he liked, but he doesn't want that; _actually_ doesn't want it. He wants to be taken care of instead, directed and lead so he doesn't have to think, sometimes he just wants to let someone else be the boss and you'll happily grant his wish. 

“Would you like to move to the bedroom?” is more an offer more than a question, a suggestion for him to latch onto. And he does, nodding happily when he doesn’t have to answer with the words he’s lost.

And you go. The plates get left on the table but the lights flicker off behind you as you lead him to your only-a-bit-cramped bedroom by the hand. He follows after so obediently, cane quiet on the carpet, and you make a note of it as you settle him on your bed. Sometimes he doesn’t need it, he can fight and walk without it sometimes, but when the stress sets in, he needs it.

You take it now, but don’t take it far, only prop it against the wall beside your bed for him. His sandals go next, set under the bed out of the way, and then his coat. The corset strings used to confuse you and take so much time to undo, but you know how to manage them now. Caressing the skin underneath as you work the strings apart, scratching ever so lightly at your pretty darling’s tattooed stomach.

He doesn’t quite shudder, doesn’t quite gasp, but this is just the start of round two after all, he’ll be a mess by the end.

But it’s not a race to the finish this time, sometimes it is, when you both of you tear at clothes and slot gasping mouths together. Sometimes you wouldn’t make it to the bedroom, the kitchen table is sturdy enough and the floor’s clean. Sometimes you pin him down and ride him until one of you can’t take anymore, but that’s only sometimes, and not this time.

Tonight is about the journey, it’s about savouring every piece as it comes apart. So you let the corset laces hang loose as you caress his thighs instead of ripping them out entirely and shoving him down. They’re there, dangling, while you smooth your hands over his soft pants, slow strokes that gradually push darling V’s legs open.

Splayed wide enough to settle between so comfortably. On your knees before him, you know what you want to give him tonight. Or rather, you’ve made up your mind about what you think he wants. 

“How are you feeling, darling?” you ask all the same, glancing up at those half-lidded eyes. He’s got his bottom lip caught between his teeth, worrying it red and lovely, but not bloody yet. 

“Eager to proceed with our game,” he says, licking his lips and smiling his seductive little half smile. The coat hanging off his shoulders doesn’t do much to hide the flush creeping down his chest and his half hard cock is right there, not so far from your stroking hands, but he still taunts you. Like this is a fight he’s already won.

“Good to hear,” and you run a lone finger along the length of his clothed cock. Smiling serenely as he gasps, sharp and short.

One of his hands comes up, almost reaching for you, but it falters in the air, stills. Always so hesitant, but that’s okay.

“Oh? Did you like that, darling?” you tease, reaching for his hand and settling it in your hair. He doesn’t tangle his fingers in your hair, yet, but he does run them through and that’s enough for now.

“Yes, but if that’s all you can manage sweetheart, I fear our game may already be at its end,” he murmurs, and you have to laugh. A delighted little burst of sound. Lord, he’s so precious, you can’t help but love him.

You don’t bother answering him, just lean in and press a sweet kiss to the growing bulge in his pants. Don’t bother looking up either when he moans breathlessly, barely more than a sigh for now, but there’s more to come. Him for example.

But you still take your time. Kissing his thighs through his pants still, hands resting comfortably just above his knees to keep those sweet legs open. Sometimes you only breathe hot and warm, a true tease, and wink when you catch his dazed eyes. Other times your kisses are open mouthed and filthy, tongue working til the fabric is wet under your lips, and you smirk up at him.

You don’t touch his cock again either. Skate by it, so close, but not quite there. The spot right above his pelvis, as close to the crease of his thighs as you can get, the meat of his thigh; it's all fair game. You even lean up to leave soft pink hickies on his hips, right along the jut of bone, and it colours in his tattoos so nicely.

He doesn’t say a word as you work him over, doesn’t beg, doesn’t demand. His eyes stay on you, watching your lips and your tongue, and hoping, hoping you’ll reward him, but he doesn’t ask for it. Even his fingers in your hair stay lax and gentle, only cradling your head as you work over him. 

Oh but that doesn’t mean he’s quiet though, far from it. Your darling knows how to use his mouth after all.

He moans for you, breathy and low, a satisfying rumble you want to feel buzzing against your lips, or against your hand. He gasps and sighs, pitching up and falling down rhythmically; he always sings such sweet songs for you. He even garbles half pleas when you stray close to where he very much wants you, something like “_please_” and something else like your name, but they never settle into proper words.

Pretty V, sweet V, is falling apart under your careful hands and wicked mouth, just like you planned. The hand in your hair is still gentle, petting your head sometimes, just holding others, like you’re the only thing grounding V to the world.

And one look up at his flushed face says, “_you are_”.

There’s blood smeared on his lips now, from biting them and worrying them and licking them to distraction. And there’s a vivid blush standing stark against his usually pale cheeks, standing light against the tattoos creeping along his neck. And his eyes, oh his lovely eyes.

“Up darling,” you say—_order_—and he obeys.

He pulls away, leans away from you though he watches you as he does. His hand slips from your hair and settles on the crumpled sheets, his head dips and his hair falls forward until his face’s hidden again. Because he needs the reprieve, just a little bit of one, and you ever so graciously give it to him.

Getting off your knees with a stretch and a sigh and standing taller than him for once. From here you can see his subtle shudders, the delicate twitches you didn’t get to appreciate quite as much. You can see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he pants, the slick sheen of sweat at the back of his neck.

“What do you want darling?” you ask again, in the voice that he obeys so well. His whole body trembles with it, almost violently, but he throws his head back to look up at you. Mouth open around every warm pant, he's a sight to behold, and he's all for you.

His jaw works and his lips form around silent words, words caught in his throat, and his eyes are green, green, _green_. They’re glass bottle green, sea glass green, worn smooth by the waves and the years until they’re soft and dazed and all for you.

“Touch me,” he breathes, the barest whisper of an answer, but his eyes are loud. They’re hazy and dazey and lost in the tight arousal sitting warm in his stomach, but they’re on you, holding your gaze.

He keeps eye contact as he reaches out, fingers trembling ever so slightly as he grabs at you, pulling you close again by the hips. And you go, because you love to indulge him, because there’s not much you could ever deny your darling. And when he buries his face in your chest, arms wrapped around your hips and clutching at your back in a desperate embrace, you smile so soft.

“Use me for your pleasure if you wish. Deny, tease, torture, have me however you desire, but please touch me,” he begs, words muffled against your skin but warm, so warm. Every panting breath puffs warm—_hot_, and you pet his hair; long sweeping strokes that brush his nape every time.

Well, at least you know what’s been going on. Poor darling, lovely darling, your heart feels like it’s ready to burst, God you love this man so much.

“Of course, darling,” you murmur, coaxing his face away so you can kiss him.

So you can tilt his head back and cup his cheek, again. So you can smooth a thumb over his slack lips and lean down for a kiss that’s as deep as it is filthy. V moans for you, instantly, automatically, and it’s a wrecked thing against your tongue, almost pained, but it tastes _divine_. It tastes like chocolate and blood and V, V, _darling_ V.

His mouth is slick and warm, moves so easy and familiar with yours, and you know he wants it faster, harder, _deeper_, but you don’t give it to him. Not yet. You want to take your time sucking every breathy whimper off his tongue first, you want to rile him up just a little more. So you devour him, slowly, methodically, groaning low when he _lets_ you do as you please.

Doesn’t say a thing when you pull away to nip at his lips, licking and biting until he’s bleeding again. Doesn’t whine when you tangle your fingers in his hair and jerk his head back, baring his tattooed neck. He shudders, violently, when you kiss the swell of his Adam’s apple, but that’s good, it’s _wonderful_.

V’s such a good boy for you, gasping and sighing as you continue the kisses down his throat. And when you break skin, his strangled shout feels so nice.

You don’t take your hands off of him, not once. You lap at the bloody bitemarks and stroke the nape of his neck. You feather kisses lower, the hollow of his throat, and run a hand down his chest, stopping above his pounding heart. Rabbit quick, fluttering almost.

“Take this off,” you tell him, nudging the collar of his coat as you kiss across his collarbone. And you know he’s reluctant to let go of you, you can tell, but he doesn’t hesitate to obey.

He leans away carefully, as far as he thinks he can without breaking your string of lazy kisses, and scrambles out of his coat. The laces still get ripped out of place, you see them flying, and laugh softly. Then the coat, tossed aside and left to crumple on the floor, “pants too,” you mumble.

The belt’s flung somewhere but the pants get some more care, you’re still standing between his spread legs after all. Still, dear darling V gets rid of them and you have no idea where they go. Under the bed, over the ceiling fan, you don’t know and don’t particularly care right now.

There’s a mix of soft joy and warm arousal dancing in your stomach and you’re almost giddy with it. Your pretty darling’s sitting ready and waiting for you, naked except for the swirl of black painted across his torso.

“Perfect darling, always so perfect.”

And you bite another piece of affection into the swell of his pec, pushing until he leans back further, further, and lays down for you. He sighs as the kisses break but you settle your hands on his thighs, still spread wide thighs, and take in the gorgeous sight laid out for you.

The whirl of black ink and demon magic, stark on top of the soft flush. The fall of his hair, across his face, spread out against the sheets, it’s haphazard and incredible. The green of his eyes, half drunk off the touch you’ve already given him, and wholly full of adoration for you.

“Pretty, darling V, what a lovely thing I’ve found myself,” you murmur, stroking his thighs again, scratching lightly.

“Everything about you is so lovely, V.” One knee on the bed, alongside his hip, so you can lean over him and stroke his quivering belly.

“Your voice, when you recite poems and explain any little thing, when you moan low and desperate for me.”

Jumping and twitching, he wants you to do more than just pet him, more than tease him, but he didn’t ask for that. He asked to be touched, and you heard the implied “_and loved_” lurking behind it.

“Your lips, I do love your lips, they taste _sublime_ darling, though with all your sweets, how could you taste anything lesee than magnificent? And I love how easy you submit, how easy you trust me; you never had to but you do and I’ve never felt more honoured,” and lean down for a quick kiss to his stomach. Low but not low enough. You’re getting there though, closer to what he wants, and what he’ll get if he keeps being so good.

“You’re a good person V, you do so much to help others, even if they don’t see it,” you sigh, rubbing soothing circles into his hip. Because that’s what this is about, why he was so keyed up and quiet, quieter than usual.

V did so much, for Vergil, and he does so much for Vergil, and all he’d like in return is a little bit of gratitude, some praise. He would never ask for it but you’ve had him splayed out like this for you before. You’ve made him cum from nothing but praise and a ghostly caress, but not tonight. He’s not in the right headspace for that tonight.

“You deserve to be loved, and protected, and get what you want, just like anyone else,” and he jerks as you kiss his cock. Barely a kiss, nothing more than a brush of lips, but he arches hard, back bowed in a perfect curve, and the noise he makes. Oh it’s somewhere between a sob and a moan and yes, there are glittering tears on his lashes.

Whether they’re from the soothing praise, balm over his frayed nerves, or from finally getting what he wants, it doesn’t really matter. V looks so pretty when he cries, with tears in his exquisite green eyes and his lip caught between his teeth. There’s something…fragile about him then, something so delicate and soft, and so utterly arousing.

You used to feel ashamed, disgusted almost. When darling V would cry from all your teasing and denying, when he’d gasp and sob from the overstimulation because it was all too much. You used to hate it, try to avoid it, because it felt wrong using him like that, but…he likes it.

He loves it even, knowing that even something so raw is still attractive to you. That you don’t mind when he lets his emotions get the better of him.

“Please,” he whispers, and it’s just a word. You could ignore a word, but not when it’s said like that, wrecked and desperate and accompanied by tear-filled eyes. You can’t ignore that, and you don’t even try.

V moans when you pin him down, fingers digging into his hips hard enough to bruise, and sobs outright when you lick his cock slow and wet. You expect him to buck again, to grind against your face, but he doesn’t, he’s such a good boy.

And his cock is just as pretty as the rest of him. Flushed as red as his cheeks, leaking precum on his stomach, and twitching so sweetly when you kiss just below the head. Drawing this out some more would be nice, could be nice, but you’re not in the right headspace for that either. It’s so much nicer to suck on the head of V’s pretty cock.

Maybe he makes another noise, something keening and high, but you’re not sure. You’re too busy swallowing him down, deeper, deeper until he’s brushing the back of your throat and your nose presses against his soft skin. There’s nothing but the smell of clean sweat and musk now, thick in your nose, thick on your tongue.

It’s so easy to get lost in this, the taste and the smell and the heaviness of his cock on your tongue, pressing against the soft roof of your mouth, stretching your lips wide. So easy to get lost in the easy slide and dip as you suck him off, the velvety soft skin in your mouth, and under your hands. And when a shaky hand brushes your hair out of your face, combing the sweaty locks out of your face, you moan giddy and high around him.

There’s arousal purring low in your belly, sparking in your chest, but you don’t really want to do anything about it. This is enough. His whispery moans, voice so wrecked now, and the way he rocks weak against you, god fuck it’s so _good_.

To have his fingers in your hair, slipping down to stroke your cheek, and himself through your skin. To glance up and see the quick rise and fall of his chest, the peak of his nipples, and you would tease them because he makes the _prettiest_ noises when you do but you can’t. You don’t want to stop caressing his thighs, can’t stop squeezing and scratching and leaving your mark on him.

His whole torso is covered in tattoos, swirls and whirls of elegant black, demon pacts and contracts. Half of him, half of him belongs to something else, to _not_ you. But you’ll take the rest, you’ll gladly have it, mark it, bruise it, bloody it, then soothe it, caress it, calm it.

You could stay like this forever, head bobbing, hands stroking and squeezing, but you still want more. And, because V’s a very good boy, he gives it to you without even having to be told. Hips start straining against your hold, rocking ever so slightly, controlled but only just, and you hum happily.

He knows better than to fuck your mouth without permission, no matter how much you like it, but it’s a wonder he ever learned with how quick you let him. Coaxing him faster—_harder_—with a few hard sucks, wrapping a hand around his hip and pulling him up to meet you. It takes one, two, three times before he’s fucking into your mouth, the way you adore.

The slick slide is rougher, less velvet smooth, and you gag once, maybe twice, but that’s part of what you love about this. When V stops being so hesitant and chases down his own pleasure, sure you have to twist the rules a bit, because this is for _your_ pleasure too, but he’s still taking his. A small victory but you’ll take it, if it means moaning around his cock, then you’ll take it as often as you can.

And when he cums, hot—_burning hot_—down your throat, salty and impossibly thick, you don’t pull away. You pet his thighs as they shake, and listen to his gasping, breathless groans. Guttural sounds that shudder through him, that bow his back in an elegant arch and send his free hand into his own hair, yanking on soft white.

Your name gets mixed in with the garbled sounds, sighed and whined as you don’t let up. Not until he’s panting and begging, nothing but your name on his sweet lips. Not until his cheeks are wet with tears and his hand falls away from your cheek.

His eyes are glazed over, staring at nothing, but he’s not completely spaced out. He murmurs quietly when you move away, hands off his thighs, mouth off his cock, but doesn’t try for words. Neither do you, there’s an ache settling in your jaw, and a soreness in your knees, and you know your voice is utter mess right now. 

You still make a noise to let him know you’re leaving the room, a hum, and tap his knee as you head for the bathroom. You have special washrags for this, soft ones that feel divine on oversensitive skin and they’re still warm from the shower. Only need three tonight, not bad.

V barely stirs when you wipe him down with one, wiping away sweat and precum, firm enough to avoid anymore overstimulation. He does open bleary eyes as you move over his belly, and smiles weakly as you take care with his neck, where you bit him. There are marks there already, scarring over, and bruises on his legs, angry red hearts and curling purple edges.

The last rag is for his face, to wipe away the tears from his flushed cheeks and the smears of blood around his mouth. He’s still breathing heavy when you finish but it’s steadier, his chest isn’t heaving anymore, and he can sit up with help.

“How are we?” you ask after he’s settled against the headboard, pillows propping him up, sheet across his legs. His hair’s still sweaty, he’ll need a shower for that, but his eyes are clearer and there’s a faint smile playing around his lips; he already looks better.

There’s exhaustion in the droop of his shoulders and the hunch of his back, but the tension’s gone. No more tight lines around his mouth or hardness in his eyes, only easy pleasure and playfulness as he leans against you. Both of you against the headboard, breathing slow and resettling into your bones.

“Better, thank you,” he murmurs, lower than usual, almost grating, but he still sounds happy, “you are wholly divine.”

And you blush, happy too. Arousal’s still burning in your gut, warm in your chest, but it’s a pleasant burn. You don’t need to do anything with it, don’t really want to, it’s enough to have V come apart completely for you, in your mouth and under your hands.

“Hungry? Thirsty? There’s still cake,” you offer, basking in the afterglow with a satisfied smile. You should probably offer something healthier, fruit maybe, but you want something sweet and V’s never turned down cake.

“Yes please,” he answers immediately, blinking big puppy-dog eyes just in case you change your mind. You have to laugh, can’t help yourself, god he’s adorable and god you love him.

The cake is melting when you bring it back, neither of you remembered to stick it in the fridge, but it was covered at least and melting or not, cake is always good. You feed each other, bites of moist cake and melted icing, and laugh when drips of chocolate make a mess of your mouths, and hands. There’s chocolate on V’s chest and your crossed legs, and the sheets, and it’s all a mess.

But V’s laughing, eyes half shut with his wide smile, and you feel so good. So happy, all because of him.

"I wondered where they'd gotten to," he comments offhandedly as his pants fall on his head, off the ceiling fan, and you have to laugh.

God you love him.

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say? I'm a slut for a pretty face. Feel free to come talk about said pretty face over on [tweeter](https://twitter.com/Darke_Eco_Freak)


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